


An Oar From The Depth

by Wizard95



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: A lil' bit of aquaphobia I guess?, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: After almost drowning at Dunkirk, Collins finds it hard to resume his duties as a pilot in the RAF.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all I recently joined the Dunkirk fandom and this is my first contribution to it. Hope you like it! I can't get enough of these two and there aren't many fics so I just had to write one myself. English is not my mother tongue so I apologize if you find any mistakes! Also please excuse any historical inaccuracies, I did little research and I suck at describing anything technical, so there's that. 
> 
> Notes: This is post-film, as it focuses on Collins coping after his near-drown. Farrier's spitfire didn't run out of fuel and the air force is still 'on duty', let's say. Life at the base, in a way. I tried my best to imitate a Scottish accent, and I probably failed. Also, the song that inspired the title is oddly fitting and linked below.

 

 

_I'm fighting too hard to win, back on the ground again._  
_I feel like giving in, but you're my second wind_.  
  
_Don't you ever tire, facing all my fires?_  
_I don't need no one but you right now._

 [Lifesaver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWLB0bQzEcI), Sunrise Avenue.

 

 

 

    Collins had his fair share of night terrors as a child. His mama would tuck him in, sing to his ear, stay until he fell back asleep. He was easily shaken by the stupidest possible things, like the wind against his window or the foxes roaming around; but he had a warm bed, a warm fire to sit down next to, perhaps entertain himself with a couple of wooden toys to keep his mind from wandering off to scary stories of entities hiding under his bed or inside closets. Childish tales, those were. He never met any witches, and no living-dead had knocked on his door late in the morning and had tried to drag him to their grave and eat him. No. They were stupid tales for naughty children.

  
  
    It would take twenty more years for him to come face to face with the real terrors, the real horror, the one he couldn't just dismiss as a petty dream that was never to come true. And there was nobody to tuck him in and tell him that it was going to be all right now. If there were, Jack wouldn't believe them anyway: he'd seen too much, and he didn't have the memory of a four-year old anymore. He couldn't get up and go about his day, leaving the bad dreams behind where they became fuzzy in his mind until they disappeared for good by lunchtime. These didn't disappear, they haunted him, day and night, during breakfast and during lunch and dinner when he looked around and found that there were less and less people around with every day that went by. He couldn't bury his head in the sand, and he had to go back up knowing that there was a high chance of turning into a name on a list himself, into one less pilot, one more empty chair in the dining room.

  
      
    Someone would probably notice, he likes to think. Someone would notice, but soon they'd forget as well, because everyone had their own demons, and that's all they went on to be: just another missing face. Nameless to many, known to very few.

  
  
    "Skipping meals won't help your case" says a rough voice behind him, and Jack stumbles up and out of his chair, woken out of his stupor, nodding briefly at his superior, who's stopped by, tray in both hands, the same stew, a piece of bread. "Sit down, Collins" Farrier says, tired, and Jack obliges. He knows his manners, and Farrier not only is his superior but has also saved his life more times than Jack cares to count already. So no, he won't stop saluting him, because it is appropriate and it is right and effortless. And he's trying really hard not to let the war win, not to let it change him, not to let him become lifeless and dull and non-human. It is a small gesture, but for Collins, it means holding onto his sanity. Besides, it reminds him of the old days, of his training, of a time when all of this seemed but a distant future. It hasn't been that long, really, but it takes its toll on you. On the younger ones, Collins sees, it's much more noticeable. Growing up within a span of months. Growing into men, into something they were never meant to grow into. Ripped of their innocence.

  
  
    He hears a sigh and opens his eyes again to Farrier taking a seat next to him. His stew steaming, hot, contrary to Jack's, which has been sitting there on his plate for a good ten minutes, untouched. He straightens up, trying to look less ominous, failing to. If Farrier's words are anything to go by, he's already been filled in on it all. They're considering grounding him temporarily. He's been shot down three times in just two weeks, at this point he's being as useful to the cause as a fucking jerry.

  
  
    "What's got into you?" Farrier asks, mouth full, slightly turning his head towards him.

  
  
    Collins meets his eyes, he's frowning, something akin to worry clouding his features. They haven't had time to catch up, after Dunkirk, and Jack hasn't put much effort into it either, pointedly avoiding running into Farrier whenever he can. Because he's ashamed, even more so now that he's turned into this useless, fearful cat. Flying didn't use to be a problem, he could get in, settle down and take off swiftly. He can't concentrate now, for the life of him. Not when he's in, not when he's out, not when he's on land. All he can think of is water, water all around him, slowing down his movements, going up and up and up until there's no more air to breathe, into his throat until there is only only one way to go: swallowing it and asphyxiating. He shouldn't be bothered by it hundreds of feet up in the air, yet it makes his hands tremble and sweat run down his face and it makes his breath quicken and falter. He is terrified of falling again. He used the chutes the last three times, anything not to be confined in when he hits the water. He'd rather freeze.

  
  
    "Nothin', feelin' a bit under the weather is all" he says, instead. Because he can't tell Farrier that, because there are men in land being butchered and being up in the air is a privilege and a necessity, and he can't afford speaking up, he's got no right to complain when all he does is avoid bullets and go back to base, the same monotonous routine, but a relatively safe one compared to what those men are going through. How many of them would choose death by drowning, if he asked them?

  
  
    "You gone to the nurse?" Farrier asks, leaning a bit forward to get a good view of his face. "I see" he adds after some seconds, almost a murmur, like an after-thought.

  
  
    Collins fights the urge to shrug. He's getting as much sleep as the other men, which is not much. It is a collective problem, so Farrier won't dwell much on it, he reckons. He never seems sleep-deprived, Jack notes. Always up when he's got to be up, clear words and impenetrable facade. Farrier always seems in control of himself, does his job and does it in impeccable manner, nothing bad to be said about his performance in the air; or on land either for that matter. It is unnerving. But it landed him a good rank, and very much deserved it was.

 

  
    He too used to be praised for his ability to fly a spitfire. Now he's going downhill, just a pathetic excuse for a pilot, expendable, he's out of the game. They haven't sent him up for two days. He's stranded here, will be lucky if he gets sent somewhere else, where his mates won't look down on him, where Farrier won't sit with him at dinner to keep him company because no one else dares to look him in the eye. Soldiers wouldn't take any kinder to him either. He can't decide which fate is worse.

  
  
    "You're a remarkable pilot, Collins" Farrier starts, and Jack closes his eyes, fights back a groan and resumes his previous posture: hunches down, rests his face on his hand. He's a mess and Farrier can see it, no point in trying to hide it. He's tired and feels beyond pathetic, and those words mean nothing. He _was_ a remarkable pilot. And now he's not. "I've put in a good word for you, but I can only do so much if you don't help yourself."

  
  
    Collins snaps his head up at that, opens his mouth, not sure what to say, not sure what he's feeling.

  
  
    "I don't want you up there like this" Farrier makes an almost imperceptible nod towards him, "sort it out."

  
  
    And with those three words, he gets up. Jack mumbles a soft "yes, sir" without looking up, because even if it wasn't meant as an order, that's what it sounded like to him. _Pull yourself together and sort it out._ But he's starting to think that he's better off on land, where he can't hinder anyone in the air, because he hasn't hit down any enemies since Dunkirk, and he's lost the air force three spitfires in twelve days, which is simply unacceptable.

  
  
    "...and Collins" a hand comes to rest on his right shoulder, and Jack does looks up to Farrier now, his hair standing on end. "If you ever need someone to talk to..." he leaves the words hanging, as Collins nods in gratitude and looks back forward, brows furrowed, ashamed. There's a light squeeze from his warm hand and then Farrier is walking off, not looking back.

  
  
    Jack closes his eyes, tense. Cold. Colder now, somehow.

  
  
    What he would do to have Farrier pull him into a warm embrace and hide him from everything... From the world, from the war, from himself. It's soft and meaningless touches like these what make him lose his mind, what make him want more, a burning sensation lingering long after Farrier's out of sight, hours and hours until he sees him again, hours into the nights when Collins is lost and finds that closing his eyes and imagining Farrier next to him offering a hug of reassurance is the best possible way to calm his nerves. More than a hug, sometimes, but he can't long for it, he can't expect, because it can't happen and will never happen.

  
  
    He goes to bed early, retrieving his full bowl, stew cold, getting a kind offer of re-heating from one of the cooks, he shows her a kind smile and turns it down.

  
  
  
    And he regrets it late at night, when his stomach's rumbling resonates in the four walls and he can hear Smithy up in the bunk letting out an almost inaudible groan that he'd been fighting down for a good while. Collins closes his eyes and curses internally. He turns on his bed and hopes that sleep catches up with him soon.

  
  
    It doesn't.

  
  
    "Fucking hell will you stop moving around so much" comes the remark, not long past midnight, when Jack turns around on the mattress for the third time in a minute. "Won' get a wink if ya don' keep quiet, and _I_ do have to be up when the sun comes out, thank you very much."

  
  
    "Aye, apologies" he mumbles back, his voice a growl. He never quite took a liking to Smithy, and Jack had always been a people's person so that was saying something.

  
  
    "Some o' us 'ave a job to do, Collins."

  
  
    "I heard ya the first time" he bites back rather harshly, accent thick. Smithy doesn't answer back.

  
  
    He drifts in and out of sleep like many other nights, nightmares haunting his sleep like an unrelenting sickness, water and smoke and desperate cries for help that get no response. When he wakes up the third time his shirt is soaked through and he can't drift back off; so he stays quiet and silent until the first drops of sunlight start coming in through the window at five; and making straight for the showers, leaving Smithy to wake up on his own, he doesn't feel the least bit of remorse.

  
  
    He doesn't stay in the shower for long. The place is empty enough that no-one catches sight of him slowly leaning against the tiling and turning the tap off, out of breath. He walks off light-headed, a common recurrence now, a completely new yet familiar part of his morning ritual. When he returns to the dormitory, only his underwear on, absentmindedly drying his hair off with the towel, Smithy is already gone, half his covers on the floor, his pillowcase already there. The wardrobe is wide open. Collins sits down on the bed, head bent down, chest-pain slightly making his face turn into a painful expression; and he takes deep breaths. It goes away, after a couple of minutes. It goes away. Till the next morning, anyway.

  
  
    It's the empty feeling on his stomach what prevents him from lying back down on the bed. He needs to look the part, he thinks as he slowly stands up, there might be no duties to fulfill today either, but he has to show his face out there or they'll dismiss him for good. And he might be losing his mind, but he refuses to let it show.

  
  
    Full navy-blue uniform on, tie and perfectly combed hair, he drags his feet through the now rather-crowded corridors, hands in his pockets and watching envious as the new recruits swarm around excitedly. As if there's anything to be excited about. He goes out of his way to let them run past him more than once, briefly nodding at the few ones that call him 'sir' and bid him good morning. Soon they'll get their own uniforms and won't be so impressed.

  
  
    Among the incessant chatter that clouds the facilities, it is only normal that he doesn't hear Farrier calling out for him until he's practically reached the spot where he's stuck.

  
  
    "Collins!" he hears, at last, and turns around startled.

  
  
    Farrier's lips form a line when he sees him, and Collins takes his hands out of his pockets immediately. That is not why Farrier is frowning, though, and Jack thinks that there is no point in trying to make himself look presentable every morning if he's going to scowl at him like that and read through his stupid act.

  
  
    It's the bags under his eyes, surely.

  
  
    "Didn't hear ya" Jack explains, matter-of-factly.

  
  
    "Figured" Farrier retorts. "Come on" he says next, and this time Collins is the one frowning, although he turns around and joins Farrier in his quick pace. The newbies move away to let them through now, two pilots in uniform don't go unnoticed as easily. May just be Farrier, probably is. He's got a reputation and an air about him that elicits admiration; he too is still enchanted by that air from time to time, so he can only guess how these youngsters feel when they look to Thomas. "Been looking for you all over" Farrier's voice says, a little reprimand, no doubt. He has been biding his time, yes, with the showering and the dressing-up. He needs to make them count for something, the little tasks, or else the day becomes unbearably long.

  
  
    "Not like I need to be anywher'" Collins says back, not as disappointed as he should sound, he thinks. Farrier shoots him a quick glance as they reach the stairs and take the second turn to the hangar.

  
  
    "Well you do today."  
  
    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the first part! Second part should be up soon. I'd love to read your opinions! You can check out the moodboards I made for this [on my tumblr](http://smuggsy.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fic).


	2. Chapter 2

_You lift me higher, you hold the fire._  
_You make me strong enough to stay._  
_Made up stand tall, but without you I'd fall._

 

 

_[Lifesaver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBGpBqm6w0E), _Sunrise Avenue.

 

 

  
  
   Farrier is rushing and Collins follows him with a million words forming up in his mind. He doesn't speak, and just hurries with him down the stairs, ignoring the quick glances he's throwing at him, as if assessing his behavior. Maybe this is a test, Collins thinks, and he tries to even up his breath and surreptitiously wipes his clammy hands down on his trousers.

  
   He clears his throat, hoping his voice doesn't betray his stoic expression.

   
   "Am I going up?" he asks Farrier as they approach the youngest engineer in the base, a bright lad he is, slipping from under the spitfire Farrier's leading him towards.

  
   "Yes we are." Farrier answers promptly, not looking back to him this time, catching up with the brunette who gives a nod in Collins' direction and shakes Thomas' hand. "You're flying with me."

  
   "All good, sir"

  
   "Thank you Thompson" Farrier side-turns to look at Collins, whose feet are stuck to the floor as he looks up at the massive airplane rising up in front of him.

   
   It's been a few days. He hasn't flown with Farrier since Dunkirk, and they shared rank back then... He wonders what Thomas is like as a leader. Remarkable, no doubt.

  
   As he watches Thompson walk away and move into examining another nearby-airplane, Farrier regards him with a cautious look.

  
  "It's just a routine sweep-over, bad weather's coming in from the west so not much chances to get jumped on. Still, we've got to do our job."

   
   Collins looks back at Farrier, tries to nod in agreement but what comes out holds more resemblance to a head-shake than a nod. He mentally kicks himself for it.

   
   Yes. His job. He has to do his job.

  
    _Don't wipe your hands._

   
   "Are you up for it?"

   
  " _Of course_ " he snaps, way too eager to sound convincing, he thinks, but he looks at Farrier with an offended look nevertheless. Thomas gives him a once-over again, "we take off in five" he says before walking off, and Collins nods, properly this time, more to himself than for Farrier to see.

   
   A lump starts forming in his throat when he comes closer to the spitfire, bigger and bigger with every step he takes forward.

   
   He clears his throat.

   
    _Get a fuckin' hold._

   
   He checks that Farrier's not looking before wiping his hands again to prevent them from slipping off, and climbs up and in.

   
   "Oi!"

   
   The voice startles him, and he looks down from the cockpit to see Smithy standing there, frowning up at him, goggles in one hand and disheveled uniform.

   
   "Fancy seeing you back down here" his roommate says, not even a hint of happiness in his voice. Collins looks back in, uninterested, checking everything's in order: fuel, intercom, seat-belt. _It's alright, you're alright._ "Got an earful today, could've been a little noisier when leaving"

   
   There's no imminent danger here, he's not even _in the air_ for fuck's sake; yet he's out of breath again.

   
   "Oi, punk! You hearin' me?"

   
   Collins turns to look at him with a sneer.

   
   "It ain't my job to wake you up, _Smith_. I ain't your _mother_." He bites back through gritted teeth, and ignoring Smithy's unfriendly face he closes himself in when Farrier's voice comes through his earpieces, doesn't hear the insult that he knows Smithy throws at him before turning around.

   
   "Everything in order?" Farrier asks, and Collins isn't sure he's referring to the spitfire, to the little quarrel he's just had with Smith, or to himself.

   
   "Positive" he answers, switching the engine on.

   
   And the stomach-ache comes in shortly, as if having been switched on as well.

      
  
  
  
   Just as Farrier had said, there are some threatening black clouds coming in from the west, and though they stick to the perimeter (just as Farrier said they would, as well) Collins can't help but feel anxious about it. Getting caught in a thunderstorm is the last thing he wants. Being struck by lightning, getting lost amidst the chaos and losing his bearings, ending up in the enemy's air territory as a consequence, his engine being fried up, they're all very likely scenarios and they all end up with him spiraling down into the depths, into the cold and dark waters below.

   
   Maybe he's meant to be here right now, he's meant to not comeback. He finds that possibility oddly reassuring, he realizes. Not having to keep feigning calmness, not having to cry down on his pillow at night so he doesn't wake Smithy up, not having to sneak into the showers early, not having to put up with _any_ of that anymore. It _is_ reassuring. He's not even sure there's someone waiting at home anyway, he hasn't received any letters in months. Not even sure there _is_ a home to go back to.

   
   "Collins" comes Farrier's voice, and Jack startles, wakes up from his reverie and adjusts his headset. "Do you read?" he asks, and judging by the insistence in his voice, he's been talking for a good while now.

   
   "Yes, sir" he says, quickly, and looks both to his right and left and notices that Farrier's nowhere to be seen.

   
   His breath gets stuck in his throat.

   
   He can't be far if he's talking to him.

   
   He's somewhere near. He's got to be.

   
   "I _said_ round back" Farrier says through the intercom, and Collins thinks he sounds rather annoyed. "I don't see you, over"

  
   "Understood, coming round" he says, and does as told, flies into the fog.

   
   He bites down a curse. The storm is close enough that he can feel the thundering in his bones. How much longer are they meant to be out here for? They won't be able to avoid those clouds once they've advanced into their route, which should be any minute now. 

   
   He wipes down his hands on his uniform one at a time and looks down to his clothes in discomfort. It's too hot in here, which is frankly alarming considering it's the middle of winter and he's hundreds of feet up in the air. It is freezing outside, and he should be very cold at the very least.

   
   He's not.

       
   When he sees Farrier joining him from the right, he lets out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding. He stays steady en-route, waiting for orders; and it feels like a lifetime until Farrier speaks up again.  
 

   "All right, we're going back" he says at last.

   
   "Through the storm?" Collins blurts out, and regrets it immediately. Because _of course_ they're going through the storm, because it's the quickest way and they're definitely not going to go round it and risk flying on reserve. "Shouldn't we go down?" he suggests, hoping to redeem himself. He knows they're easy pickings down there, but it's very unlikely that they'll get jumped on in the middle of a storm.

   
   Yes, _unlikely_. Not unheard of.

   
   Collins looks down to the water, impatiently waiting for an answer that doesn't come.

   
   "Farrier, should we descend? Do you read? Over." He tries again, eyes back up, the huge black clouds looming closer and closer like an impeding doom.

   
   He glances to his right and can barely make out the spitfire's shape through the thick fog.

   
   There comes an intelligible sound, Farrier's voice in between static, and Collins can't understand a word.

   
   That would be the electricity.

   
   "Couldn't make that out, come in again?" he says, just for the sake of talking really, because he knows they won't be able to communicate through the intercom until they've left the storm behind. "Guess we're going through then."

   
   He loses visual on Farrier soon after that, and wonders if he should go down himself despite not having been ordered to do so.

   
   " _Shite_ " he groans through the incessant turbulence. The deep rumbling of thunder makes his stomach turn, and he looks around to see if he can catch sight of Farrier.

   
   He can't. He knows he won't, but he looks for him nonetheless.

   
   He can't see anything past the clouds and the rain, he could have a nazi breathing down his neck and he wouldn't even know it until he was already hit.

   
   The static doesn't stop, and he considers taking the headset off for a moment, hands sweaty, eyes blinking to make the blurriness go away. He yanks them off when just a second after he lets out a whimper. He's sure Farrier can't hear it, but he's not going to risk it. They would send him on his way in a jiffy.

   
   His heart skips a bit every time a lightning shots up near him, knowing the next one could have him going face down into the water in no time, knowing Farrier could do nothing to prevent it. Not until it was too late, anyway. He's on his own now, always has been, really, left to his own devices.

   
   The mask is necessary, he knows, it provides a steady supply of oxygen that he definitely cannot do without in this altitude, yet he's feeling claustrophobic and he wants to yank it out of his face as well, as he did the earpieces.

   
   "Steady on, Jack." His voice shakes in tune with the turbulence, and he grips the steer with such force that his knuckles go white.

   
   He grits his teeth and holds his breath when the airplane gets shaken violently once more, and closes his eyes just for a split of a second. When he opens them, everything goes still, and there is white ahead and dark blue below.

   
   He's light-headed.

   
   "Fuckin' hell" he breathes out.

   
   His throat his dry and his hands are wet again. He should've put the gloves on.

   
    _Irresponsible. Amateur._

   
   When he sees Farrier emerging from the thick darkness through his rear-view mirror, he immediately puts on the headset again in a sloppy motion. Sure enough, Farrier's shouting on both his ears.

   
   "... _GET YOU! GO UP NOW!"_

   
  
   "Wha'?" He frowns in confusion, and it takes him more time than it should've to realize that it's not Farrier's spitfire that's come out of the mashed dark clouds behind. And it makes a difference, his delay, it makes all the difference it could've made, because the high sound of bullets piercing through the spitfire drown out any other sound, drown out Farrier's shouts.

   
   And he can't bring himself to move, to speak, to do anything more than stare as the dark blue water looks closer and closer as he's going straight for it. He blacks out some moment during the fall, and it makes no sense at all that when he wakes up he's already underwater, and it's dark and finally he feels cold as the freezing water engulfs him. And he just lets it. He lets himself run out of air because he can't get out of here now, the water's pressing the spitfire deeper into the depths and he looks up as the last remain of daylight disappears.

   
   Then he _actually_ wakes up.

   
   He takes in too much air at once and it makes his lungs hurt. He wheezes. Sitting up abruptly in the bed he presses a hand down on his chest, as if that's going to make the pain go away.

   
   Someone's talking to him, he thinks ( _surely_ he's not having hallucinations now) but he can't make out the words past the ringing in his ears. And he frankly doesn't care much for it either.

   
   "Oi, gives us a word, c'mon" Smithy is saying, eyeing him with concern. He grabs on Collins' wet shirt and yanks him out of the bed only to have him sway on his feet. " _Shite_ " He lets Collins sit back down and looks him up and down one more time before deciding to leave the room.

   
   Jack's feeling the dinner coming up, and he manages to stumble over to the other side of the room and face down on top of the little sink before he lets it out.

   
   It's disgusting.

   
   He leans his hands on the wall and lets his head fall. Letting out a suffering groan, he stares longingly at the floor that seems to be moving under his feet. He can't sit, not yet, he'll puke all over it and it'll be harder to clean.

   
    _Better than to fall and break your neck_ , a voice provides. He doesn't listen to it, instead he leans back down and makes a face as he pukes for the second time.

   
   His stomach seems to settle down after that, and he feels around for the glass of water and puts it in his mouth to wash out the remains of food inside. He spits it out and does it a couple more times until the glass is empty, then he returns it to its place. Or so he thinks he's doing, until he hears it shattering on the floor.

   
   Another groan.

       
   He's leaning down to pick the pieces up when somebody prevents him from falling on them just in the nick of time.

  
   "God _almighty_ Collins, what do you think you're- _don't_ \- for _fuck's_ sake" it's Smithy.

   
   And a nurse.

   
   "Down on the bed?" he asks her, and she answers something that Collins doesn't hear. Must've said yes, though, because he finds himself being put to bed a minute later.

   
   "We have to get him out of those wet clothes" a female voice says. Collins can't see her face, but he can see a sky-blue blur to his right and he can hear her gentle accent. Londoner. "And he needs to keep warm."

   
   "Ha! That's as warm as it gets in'ere, love" Smithy's voice sounds too close, and Collins makes a face.

   
   "Mnot cold at all" He manages to say.

   
   "Shut up" Smithy snaps at him. "You're shivering, not making any sense"

   
   "Well, we do need to get him somewhere warmer." The nurse insists.

   
   "He's burning up, what you need to get him warmer for?"

   
   The nurse brushes Smithy aside and doesn't bother answering.

   
   She sits down next to Jack on the bed, who can't seem to get his eyes to focus. He's positive she's a redhead though.

   
   Smithy watches in silence as she presses the round metal to his chest and shakes her head at something that only she can hear.

   
   "That won't do." She looks behind her. "Well? Hand me some dry clothes, what are you standing there for?" she inquires, with a shake of her hand. "Useless" she mutters.

   
   "Oi! It were me who brought you here" Smithy protests, but hands her a white clean shirt and a pair of blue cotton pants that don't belong to Collins. He doesn't mention that.

   
   "So you did." She nods. "And now go fetch your superior."

   
   "What, _Farrier_?"

   
   Jack catches that.

   
  
   "Don't- I'm fine ma'am, don' go callin' anyone'" Collins stirs on the bed, tries to protest, but a cold hand on his chest keeps him from getting up. That, and the fact that he's got little to no energy to begin with. "Ma'am... please" he begs, what for, he's not sure.

   
   Another stern look from the nurse has Smithy hurrying out of the room, and Collins just rests his head on the pillow and closes his eyes so the objects around him stop moving.

  
  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you for the kudos! I decided to make this at least three chapters! Might be a couple more though, but at least one more for sure. I'd love to read your opinions ♥ Also, I literally did no research so any historical inaccuracies, or geographical inaccuracies, or any kind of inaccuracy, is entirely my fault for being a lazy ass... See you on the next part!


	3. Chapter 3

 

 _You're fighting for me right until the end._  
_You pull me back to life, and save me once again.  
  
_[Lifesaver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWLB0bQzEcI), Sunrise Avenue.

 

 

 

    Smithy looks around impatiently, gently knocks on the door and steps back and fidgets with his hands until it's opened and Farrier frowns at him a minute later. His hair is as messy as it can be being that short, and Smithy thinks that he's not staring at him as rudely as he should be. As _he_ would be staring up at himself if he'd been woken up at past two in the morning.  
  
  
    "Sir, I'm only here 'cos the nurse sent me" he points to his back and makes a face at how stupid the words sound once he's told them out loud: like he's excusing himself for being out of bed. Like a five-year-old. He shakes his head. "I mean, she told me to-"  
  
  
    "What is it?" Farrier cuts him off, already closing the door behind him and starting to walk. Smith catches up with him.  
  
  
    "Well sir, Collins is... sick. Thas' what the nurse's saying, that he needs to warm up she said even though he looks hot enough to me" he rambles on, quickly but briefly telling Farrier about the puking and the fever. "I only heard 'im wake up sir, he wouldn't mutter a word so I went and fetched a nurse, thought it was the proper thing to do, yeah..."  
  
  
    "You did well" Farrier nods, and runs a hand through his tired face.  
  
  
    "Thank you sir, he's been having trouble sleeping sir, Collins"    
  
  
    "I know" Farrier says, a response that was not expected nor does he realize he's blurted out. They reach the room, the door wide open, and Farrier makes his way inside silently, noticing a nurse in a nightgown whispering soflty. He turns around and sends a meaningful look towards Smith, who lingers by the door.  
  
  
    The redhead notices him standing there mere seconds later and quietly approaches.  
  
  
    "I'm sorry to have you up at this time" she begins, but Farrier shakes his head in response, eyes directed at a shivering Collins on the bed. He can hear his roughed-up breathing from where he stands and it makes his hair stand on end. "But he's in no state to spend the night here and the infirmary is no better. He needs warmth or else it'll escalate into something worse; we may not be able to treat him at the facilities if it comes to that."  
  
  
    Farrier holds back a curse, and nods again in understanding.  
  
  
    "He was wet through, I helped him into some dry clothes but the cold air in here is deadly, he can't stay."  
  
  
    "I'll take care of that" Farrier promises. "Anything else I should be aware of? Should he watch his food?" he asks, glancing at the slightly dirty sink in the corner.  
  
  
    The nurse shakes her head and follows his gaze.  
  
  
    She seems apologetic.  
  
  
    "No, it was just his nerves spiking up, that's all. But do keep an eye on that fever, and give him some water when he wakes. I'll check on him come morning, you understand I can't take him with me."  
  
  
    "Of course, thank you."  
  
  
    She opens her mouth but closes it almost immediately, as if battling with her thoughts. Looking at Farrier in the eye with something akin to pity, she asks: "You need help moving him?"  
  
  
    Farrier shakes his head and glances at Smithy.  
  
  
    "Call me if you need me" the redhead shows him a glimpse of a smile and gives a brief nod before leaving the room, whispering something to Smith that Farrier doesn't catch.  
  
  
    Thomas takes a deep breath and motions for Smith to come closer. Collins' hair is damp, he notices, and although he seems out of himself, he still lets out a groan when they hold him up.  
  
      
    "Hang in there, now" Farrier says in response, as he supports half Collins' weight with a hand around his waist. "We'll be done in a moment"  
  
  
    Except, they aren't, really. After two long corridors and a set of stairs, they still haven't got there, and Collins makes another sound, this one more similar to a whine.  
  
  
    "We're almost there" he says again, and Collins doesn't answer this time, but Farrier can see him frowning in discomfort.  
  
      
    It feels like a lifetime to him, too, when they finally reach his dormitory.  
  
  
    "I'll get the door" Smithy says, "you got him?"  
  
  
    Farrier brings Collins closer to his body and answers with a slightly worked-up "yeah, go". He can feel Collins' shirt getting rather damp around his neck already and he doesn't hold back a curse this time. The air in the corridors is chilly, he should've put a jumper on him.  
  
  
    They help him down on the one bed and Smithy turns around immediately, running both his hands along his arms. Like Farrier, he's not wearing a long-sleeved shirt either.  
  
  
    "Right sir, will be going if you won't be needin' me"  
  
  
    "Thank you, Smith. That's all." He shows him a kind smile and gives an acknowledging nod. "Goodnight."  
  
      
    Farrier watches him close the door behind him with a sympathetic look. He can't do anything about that, he thinks, with ranks come benefits, and he can't turn either down. So he's got Collins' to look out for now, and he should turn on that heater. The one he's barely used since he got this room.  
  
  
    "Right" he breathes out, and turns around to look at the young man who's lying down on the mess of a bed he left behind just five minutes ago.  
  
      
    Collins has rolled around to face the wall and his legs are tangled with the covers, but other than his chest going up and down, he doesn't move at all, and Farrier doubts he's got any idea where he is either.  
  
  
    He decides to switch on the heater in the corner first, and then busy himself with the rest of the tasks. He untangles the covers from Collins' legs and pulls them up to his shoulders; Collins doesn't move. He dries off his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, Collins doesn't make a sound. He stops shivering after a while when Farrier has settled down on the chair next to the bed and his eyes are slipping closed.  
  
  
    He dozes off.  
  
  
    Not long after, however, he jerks to attention when he hears a loud exhale coming from his right. When he opens his eyes he sees Collins shifting his body on the bed, the sheets becoming again a tangled mess on his feet. Farrier rubs his eyes to make the fog go away, and he straightens up on the chair.  
  
  
    The lights are still on, so he can clearly see Collins' furrowed brow, his slightly parted lips and his troubled expression.  
  
  
    Farrier stares, taken aback by just how angelical he still manages to look in this state of agitation. His golden locks are less wet but still look sticky, and his cheeks are still red hot.  
  
  
    Collins moves on the mattress, uneasy in his sleep, and Farrier gets closer and presses the handkerchief to his temple to dry off the sweat.  
  
  
    "You're alright..." he whispers, sweetly, soothingly, striving for it, at least. He rests his hand between Collins' eyebrows, right where the wrinkles of his forehead are, a constant sign of distress. The young man seems to relax under his cold touch, and Farrier lets out a sigh.  
  
  
_Whatever's going on inside that head..._ Farrier thinks back to the events of the day, and can't help but feel a pinch of regret starting to grow in his stomach. He runs a hand through his hair, and can't stop the feeling of remorse from growing strong in his chest with every whimper that comes out of the blond's mouth. He shouldn't have brought him up with him.  
  
  
    "You're a damned fool" he scorns himself.  
  
  
    He thought it'd be of help; all that 'face your demons' charade, it was horseshit. He'd just added more wood to the fire, is what he'd done. Now Collins was burning, quite literally, and it was on him.  
  
  
    He'd seemed well enough during dinner, but then again, maybe Farrier wasn't as good at reading him as he thought he was.  
  
      
    Another whine comes out of Collins' lips and Farrier feels the urgency to jerk him awake, take him away from whatever nightmare he's in, tell him to talk to him, tell him he doesn't have to struggle alone. But they don't have that kind of relationship, they never had. Something close they were, once, when they trained together, but then they split them up and from one day to another Farrier was a Lieutenant and Collins was suddenly calling him 'sir', their interaction reduced to simple greetings at lunch and a nod here and there whenever they walked past each other in the corridor.  
  
  
   Farrier never did anything, he realizes. Perhaps he should've been the one to point it out to Collins, tell him that just because he was in a different wing of the building now, because he wore two more stripes on his uniform, it didn't mean he was suddenly unapproachable.  
  
  
  But he'd never been one for words, or feelings really. Clearly, Collins needed things spelt out not to get the wrong impression. He'd always been a talkative lad, since the first time he saw him, all smiles and chipper personality. Bright in every sense of the word.  
  
  
  Yet another thing that's changed.  
  
  
  Collins doesn't talk to Smith, that much is known, they clashed on the same day they got assigned as bunkmates. In fact, he seems to be alone most of the time now.  
  
  
  Since Dunkirk.  
  
   
  Farrier sits back down on the chair and glances at the window. It'll be day soon. He closes his eyes and makes himself as comfortable as he can.  
  
   
  Dunkirk.  
  
  
  Collins had never been shut down until that day... Was that it? Was that the memory that was haunting him? Was that the reason why his impeccable record had got tainted by so many failed missions?  
  
  
  Farrier shakes his head, he'd stayed around to make sure it was a safe landing, no chute used. He saw him soon enough back at base, unharmed.  
  
  
  Yet Collins got shut down two, three times in a row in the forthcoming missions.  
  
  
  He's missing something.  
  
  
  What is he _missing_?  
  
  
   
  
   The first thing that Jack realizes upon waking up is a comforting minty and rather smokey smell embracing him. His body is aching and still quite in a daze, he rolls around without opening his eyes and stays quiet for a few seconds, relishing in the familiar smell. Until he realizes what it is.  
  
  
   That's when he opens his eyes and a completely foreign room furnishing greets him. An empty chair next to the bed, a night-stand table and a different wardrobe from the metallic one in his own room.  
  
  
   He doesn't see any familiar belongings around, yet he knows this is Farrier's room.  
  
  
  When he pulls the covers away to get off the bed, he sees that those pants aren't his either and a new wave of uncertainty washes over him.  
  
  
  Are those Farrier's? Why isn't he in his own room, wearing his own clothes? He is most definitely sure he went to bed in his own pyjamas, in his own dormitory.  
  
  
  The door opens and Collins turns towards it, startled.  
  
  
  "Well, _you're_ looking much better!" The redhead smiles, and Collins frowns, her voice echoing somewhere in the back of his mind. "Morning, pilot." She closes the door behind her, still with that happy smile in her face, and takes three long strides until she's next to him. "Oh no, do sit down, sit down" she waves a hand at him, and he obliges.  
  
  
  He clears his throat, realising he hasn't said a word.  
  
   
  "Mornin'" Comes his raspy voice. He tries a smile, as well, and watches her pull out a stethoscope out of her side pocket. "May I ask-"  
  
  
  "Yes you may" she interrupts, placing a hand on his forehead. "In just a minute, now stay still and breathe deep in and out for me."  
  
  
  Collins does as told again, and focuses on a mirror hanging in the opposite wall to prevent himself from flinching when her cold hand slips under his over-sized shirt to place the even _colder_ metal to his chest.  
  
   
  In.  
  
  
  Out.  
  
  
  In.  
  
  
  Out.  
  
  
  In.  
  
  
  And out again.  
  
  
  "Right... yes, that sounds better than last night." She nods to herself as she puts the instrument around her neck and rolls down his shirt. "You're still a bit hot though" she turns around, "you didn't leave it on all night, did you?"  
  
  
  Collins blinks confusedly and opens his mouth, no sound comes out.  
  
  
  He looks around her to see what she's referring to, and spots a heater in the corner of the room, almost completely hidden by the wardrobe.  
  
  
  "I- I don' know" he shakes his head, lost.  
  
  
  "Well, I'd say stay in today, we don't want that fever coming back. I'll have someone bring you breakfast."  
  
  
  She talks quickly, and just as quickly turns around and heads for the door.  
  
  
  "Yes, uh- just- ma'am-"  
  
  
  "Oh, yes! You wanted to ask me something" she turns around, hand in the doorknob and the same gentle smile. She must be very busy, Collins considers.  
  
  
  "May I go back to my room now?"  
  
  
  He figures that's the most pressing matter at the moment. Maybe the events from last night will come back to him soon, but he wants to be out of Farrier's hair by the time that happens.  
  
  
  "I'd rather you stayed here for another day, we don't want you out in the cold catching pneumonia, do we?" She must have seen his face drop at the answer because she quickly adds: "I'll come back later and we'll see, how about that?"  
  
  
  And she disappears, leaves Collins feeling rather childish.  
  
  
_How about that?_  
   
  
   Collins lets out a sigh.  
  
  
   Pretty fuckin' inconvenient, that's how.  
  
  
   A fever?  
  
  
   He stands up warily and catching his reflection on the mirror opposite he notices how dishevelled he looks. His hair is sticking out wildly, his pale skin seems a bit grey-ish, and the over-sized shirt hangs loosely over his shoulders making him look skinnier.  
  
     
    Farrier's scent is impregnated in his clothes, no doubt a product of having slept in his bed, and Collins can't help the smile that creeps up on his face.  
  
  
    Is he out on a mission? Is he simply having breakfast and will come back any moment now? Where did he sleep? Was it him who brought him here? Did he volunteer his room, or was it a command from someone up high? It seems unlikely that they'd order him to give up his room.  
  
  
   Farrier has always been a kind soul, albeit not very demonstrative of it. Collins is sure this is no-one's doing but his, and it makes him smile like a lovestruck teen again.  
  
  
   That is, also, pretty fuckin' inconvenient.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, happy 2019! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, next one will probably be the last.  
> Feedback is much appreciated (:


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